Those Whom I Love
by swans-a-melting
Summary: Or, what happens when Rosamund Painswick hears that Lavinia Swire and Cora Crawley are grievously sick. The two women are dying, and Rosamund knows she needs to be with them. She can't let them succumb to this. She needs to tell them of her love. Rosamund/Lavinia.
1. Chapter 1

When Rosamund Painswick hears that both Matthew's fiancé and her sister in law are both ill, she finds she cannot be sure who it is that she is most worried about. She adores Cora, she of the sweetly silly nature and huge kitten eyes, and always has, since the day she first met her, despite all the snarky comments she was willing to provide. The only reason they were there was because she needed to hide from the pretty American that she couldn't take her eyes off her. And she was successful – Cora never noticed a thing, had only been a little hurt, until Rosamund decided to change her snarls into smirks and actually let Cora grow to like her. Now they are great friends. Rosamund keeps her feelings quiet.

And then there is Lavinia, the red headed snippet of a girl, Mary's "replacement". When she joined Rosamund and Rosamund's mama for tea, the look in Lavinia's face the whole time was too much for Rosamund. The girl looked as they she was expecting to be eaten any moment! Rosamund had loved it, loved her innocence and slight awkwardness. She would have laughed aloud if she could.

Rosamund had done it again, hid her furtive glances with cattiness and slowly fallen for the younger woman from afar. Lavinia was so beautiful, she thought. Her red hair. Her blue-grey eyes. Her perfect form. But most of all, Rosamund recognises Lavinia's devotion and emotion, her passion and fire. She sees how much Lavinia loves Matthew, yet she sees how much Matthew loves Mary. And she sees how it can only end in tears. Somehow she does not think they will be Mary's.

And so what, she wonders, should I do? She cannot imagine that she will be wanted up at Downton at such a time. No doubt there are others in that grand house on their backs with it too, but she doesn't care for them. She just wants to protect the women that she loves. She sighs, heaves her body from her chaise lounge and crosses the room, decanting a nip of sherry into a cut glass tumbler with slightly shaking hands. She downs it in one, pours another.

Cora. Lavinia. Her breath catches in her throat. If she were to go to Downton, what could she do? Languish by their bedsides and kiss their pallid cheeks, she supposes. She wouldn't be scared of catching the disease herself; she has always been highly robust. She'd go to Cora first, and stroke her hands and startle everyone by offering to sit by her through the night. (Although judging from the general attitude of Cora's lady's maid, Rosamund doubts she'll get near enough to even see Her Ladyship's face. Sarah O'Brien always was so protective of her mistress, even at the best of times. She imagines that now you won't be able to drag Sarah away.)

But, she realises as she sips at her drink, propping up her chin with one hand, Lavinia has no one so fiercely loyal, so ready to fight to the death for her like Cora does. Oh certainly there is Matthew, and Isobel, and maybe even Mary, to some degree, but Rosamund knows that Lavinia has no one to love her like Sarah O'Brien loves Cora.

Rosamund was going to take Lavinia under her wing, before she got sick. She was going to take her out to meet the glittering circle of London friends that she has, to show her how to dance, how to smoke a cigarette on a long handle and flirt atrociously with members of the opposite sex. And the same, if she wanted to.

Smiling ruefully at the thought of taking Lavinia in such a way, she rings the bell that will summon a maid to her assistance. She only has to wait a few minutes before the girl turns up, a pretty, blonde girl of three and twenty, but with the brains of a particularly dense amoeba and the charisma of a brick wall on a bad day. The very sight of her sets Rosamund's teeth on edge. Rosamund likes people with a sense of intelligence and fun, with mischievous ways and a good sense of style. The girl, Eve, has none of this.

"Milady?" Eve's voice is low and soft. Despite what Rosamund might think of her, she is a sweet girl really, and clever than anyone thinks. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

Yes. You can take me away; take me to Downton, to be with them there. There's nothing else I need. But that is only what she says in her head. Tell her maid her troubles and woes? As if! "I'm going to bed, Eve. I shall require the usual…and a pen…and some paper." Eve ducks her head in consent, and then scurries from the room. Rosamund begins to slowly make her way up the stairs. She currently does not have a ladies maid of her own, so Eve has to add dressing and undressing the flirtatious red head to her daily list of chores.

When Eve finally returns to undress Rosamund, carrying "the usual" (a large cup of cocoa with a liberal amount of brandy stirred in), and a fountain pen, and a block of creamy writing paper. She knocks, with a little difficulty upon the door, and then goes in. Rosamund is sprawled on the bed; boots already unhooked and kicked off. She must have done it herself. Once she sees her maid, however, she bounces back up, springing off the end of the bed.

Motioning for Eve to deposit her load on the dresser, she holds her arms out, waiting for Eve to come and help her remove her clothes. Eve begins by slowly undoing the long row of pearly buttons that are lined uniformly down Rosamund's back. She carefully peels the long, silver-ish grey dress from her mistress's shoulder, helping her to wriggle her arms out of the constrictive sleeves. The dress falls to the floor, and Rosamund nimbly steps out of it, standing aside to let Eve scoop it up and drape it on the back of the nearest chair.

After the chemise has been tugged off, and then comes the corset, and Rosamund appreciates the feeling of Eve's fingers, gentle against her back. She relaxes into them, allowing herself to close her eyes for a moment. An image of Cora and Lavinia, lying up beside each other in identical coffins, small smiles neatly arranged on their ghastly white faces. A moan comes out from her throat, jagged and low. She sways on her feet. She must be more tired than she had thought. Eve notices her mistresses discomfort, and speeds up in her undressing, murmuring, "you must be fearful tired, milady. We'll get you to bed anytime soon."

Rosamund nods distractedly, feeling irate with herself. Really, now she was just being morbid! Cora and Lavinia were _not_ going to die, not at all; they were just a little ill. After all, she reasoned with herself, Spanish flu comes in different strains and forms. They probably (hopefully) have only got it mild. And anyway, they were Countesses for heaven's sake! Well, one of them was, the other shall be if she does marry Cousin Matthew…Rosamund shakes her head. Obviously, ladies of their stations in life aren't going to die of something so trifling. At least, Rosamund hopes so. She wills it so. They can't die!

Eve shimmies Rosamund's nightgown onto her, and then guides Rosamund to the dressing table, where she begins to swiftly pull the pins from her mistress's bright hair. Rosamund smiles coyly up at her, fixing her with her most winning gaze, hoping to glean some information out of the maid. "What would you do, Eve, if someone you love is dying – I mean, very ill?" Her face is flirtatious, but her tone is worried and concerned. If Eve is taken aback by this type of question, her face does not show it.

"Well, I suppose it depends upon the type of love you have for this person, Milady," she says carefully, picking up the hair brush and beginning to smooth the days tangles from Rosamund's tresses. "And I suppose that it also depends upon if they love you." Rosamund cocks her head on one side, smirking at her maid.

"I do not think that they love me," she whispers, almost inaudibly. "But I suppose that that does not matter." Eve mumbles a nervous "mmm hmm," rather unsure of how to react. Instead, she helps Rosamund out of the chair, and Rosamund lopes over to the bed with a rather weary air. She takes a sip of her drink, but it has gone cold. She can't even taste the liquor any more. She pushes it aside. "Thank you, Eve. That is all." She raises her knees up in the bed so that they form a curving slope under the eiderdown. Upon her legs she rests the paper block, tip of the pen poised upon it. The maid curtseys, ready to leave the room. Rosamund waggles her eyebrows suggestively at her, causing Eve to flush scarlet and flee from the room at top speed. Rosamund cackles, throwing her head back as she laughs. Even if she is worried about loved ones dying, she's glad she still has her sense of humour.

She calms herself, smothering the last remaining snorts of mirth with her hand. Shaking her head at her own antics, she puts pen to paper and begins to write.

_My Dear Brother Robert, _it began.

_I have heard that your wife and Miss Lavinia Swire have fallen ill, to the Spanish flu. _Here she pauses, nibbling on the gilt end of her pen, wondering what to put next.

_I am very sorry that the dear women are in such a state, especially Miss Swire, as her wedding is so soon. I am sure that Cora, however, will be shown much affection by you. You always were so very caring! _

Caring. She doubts it. Last time her sister in law was ill Robert had shut himself up in his study and sulked for days. If she were Cora's husband, she would have barely left her side for worry. But she was not Cora's husband, and her brother does not always lavish Cora with the attention she deserves, especially when something was slightly wrong.

She continues to write.

_So no doubt you are all very busy over at Downton, nursing the sick and wedding planning, (if Lavinia is not too ill to be wedded), but I was wondering if you would permit your old sister to come for a visit? I know I shall be coming up for the wedding anyway, but I would like to visit Cora and let her know how sorry I am for her being ill, and maybe I could help you all somewhat?_

_I do hope that you'll permit me to come and see my sister in law and good friend Miss Swire in their time of illness. No doubt they'll welcome a friendly face._

_Love to you all, I am sure, (I suppose you better send your regards to Mama), and maybe I'll see you soon?_

_From Rosamund._

She hurriedly reads the letter through, decides that it is fine, doesn't sound too selfish, and will probably win Robert over. Even if it didn't, she'd still persist, sending him more and more notes in the same vein until he gave in. She could be very persistent, and he never had been, to the same degree. She tears the paper from the block and folds it in half, tossing it onto the spindly little table that stands beside her bed. She'll have someone run it down to the village and be posted in the morning.

She flicks the switch on the electric, tasselled lamp, plunging her large and airy room into comforting darkness. She lies silently for a few minutes, eyes wide open, brooding. Then she rolls over, and only has to wait a further five until she falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

The letter to Robert Grantham is posted next morning, and the day after that, a reply is delivered to Rosamund's door. It is short, only a few lines long. The tone sounds weary to Rosamund, as though written by a man with all the cares of the world resting upon his stooping shoulders.

_My Dear Sister,_

_Yes, I suppose that you can come. Come today if you wish; you can catch the train. I'll send the chauffer at 5. You won't find the house a very lively place, with everyone ill. I am not sure that Cora will be up to receiving anyone at the moment, not for a social call, but I'm certain that Miss Swire will welcome you. I didn't even know you were particularly friendly._

_Robert._

Rosamund rolls her eyes, tossing the note onto the table before and continuing to tuck into her breakfast grapefruit. She'll go of course, now that she has been granted permission. She's glad that Lavinia will be able to receive her, hasn't been affected too badly, but her brother's lines about his wife are worrying her.

"I'm not sure Cora will be up to receiving anyone at the moment, not a social call." What does he mean by that exactly? Does he mean his wife is so fever stricken she can barely sit up, or function, or see? Or does he merely mean that the illness has made Cora so crotchety she won't see anyone? She bites down on her bottom lip, so hard she tastes blood.

"Damn!" The salty rust taste of the red liquid sputtering from her lips mingles with the sourness of her grapefruit, making her mouth pucker up in disgust. She dabs it gingerly with her handkerchief, and then, satisfied that nothing else is issuing from her mouth, rings the bell. Eve arrives almost immediately. "Can I help you, milady?" she asks, wondering if that is the sentence she has uttered most in her life time. Her Ladyship is always so_ demanding _the bell _constantly_ jangling, with Rosamund hanging on the end ready to ask for this and that.

"I shall be leaving, Eve, and require my bags to be packed. And then tell Hooper I'll need a lift to the station."

"Leaving, Milady?"

"Yes, leaving!" Rosamund snaps back. Seeing the blank expression on her maids face, she continues with an impatient jerk of the head, "I'm going to Downton, my dear, Downton Abbey. To see my brother and all his family. They're ill. So I'm going to help."

Eve is not sure that her mistress is the most helpful of souls, especially when it comes to sickness, but she know it is not her place to comment on such a thing. And anyway, even if it was her place, she wouldn't dare. It is far too much of an impertinent comment, and could mean she might lose her much sought for job. "Very well, milady," she says instead. "If you will join me upstairs then we can go over the potential gowns you will be taking, and I can arrange with Hooper to take you to the station."

Rosamund nods distractedly, swanning out of the breakfast hall and sweeping up the stairs, carnelian coloured skirts a-swish, leaving Eve dithering at the foot mumbling, "I'll just let Clara clear the table then, milady…" (With Rosamund being the only person who isn't a servant in the house, she doesn't have as many employees as she might, and is more relaxed about who sorts out her dining room.) As Rosamund continues up the grand staircase, Eve trotting faithfully in her wake, she lets her fingers brush momentarily brush a handsome black marble urn resting on a little plinth halfway up.

It contains Marmaduke's ashes. _Oh, Marmaduke._ He was everything Rosamund has ever wanted, and she still loves him dearly. It's just; she's so tired of being alone these days. She needs someone to be with her, to hold her hand when things get tough, to hold her tight when she's upset. Someone to laugh with, someone to cry with, and eventually, when they are both very old, and (hopefully) very wise, someone to die with.

Guilt slams into Rosamund. She shoves it away, barging into her own bedroom. Why should she feel guilty, for wanting some company? Marmaduke is long gone, no matter how much she still loves him, and she's sure he would understand that she wanted some affection from somewhere.

Besides, now was not the time to feel guilty! Now was the time to break open the wardrobe, to pack bags, and to have fun!

She whirls on her heel, almost crashing straight into Eve and more than slightly unnerving her maid with her manically bright smile. "Eve!" she cries. "Why don't I have a drink while we do this, him? A large Martini – oh, go on!" She waves her arm towards the table in the corner of her room that holds several glass bottles of rather toxic looking liquids and a selection of fancy looking glasses.

Eve pours a burnt red liquid into one of them with a rather resigned air. Her mistress can be difficult at the best of times, but Rosamund when drunk (not again!) is a rather terrifying prospect.

"Here, my Lady." Rosamund almost snatches her drink from her maid, their fingers brushing slightly as Eve hands it to her. Eve colours slightly, Rosamund blanches. Both women turn away, avoiding one another's gaze.

"Well." The atmosphere in the room is suddenly thick and muddy. Rosamund swigs at her drink. She grins as she feels it slide slowly down her throat, burning in her stomach, and the tension is lifted. Eve turns to the wardrobe, running her fingers through the various dresses, blouses and skirts that hung there. Waggling her fingers slightly, she deftly pulled a few from it, and lay them down upon the bed.

"The blue," Rosamund said as she walked closer to wear her gowns were lying. The dress was a long satiny affair, rather floaty and intricately beaded with gold glass gems around the hips and bosom. She had picked it up in a trip to Paris before the war, and, as it was very much an evening gown, hadn't really worn it much since. Perhaps she could wear it at dinner. Although with everyone ill, dinner doesn't seem really very much like a promising affair.

Eve nods demurely, extracting the dress off its wire hanger and putting it on one side. "What else, milady?"

"The brown. The red. The green. No – not that green, it makes me look sallow. The other one beside it, the one that sets off my hair. Good. The white. The pink." Rosamund circles the bed as she speaks, head on one side, eyes scrunched thoughtfully up. Eve reckons she looked like a domineering farmer at a cattle market, weighing up in his mind which cows and sheep to buy.

Rosamund threw her body down in the nearest chair. "Well, I think that will do for evening gowns," she said decisively, smoothing her skirt across her knees. "Now we need to look into day wear! I suppose I'll need tea gowns, and dresses for the morning, and nightwear, and then all the usual undergarments. Goodness, do you suppose it'll all fit in the trunk?!" She giggled weakly, ignoring the slightly stunned look on her maid's face. "Or do you think so many dresses are a bit excessive?"

Eve begins to nod and agree, about to announce that she thinks that there are far too many dresses, and that they certainly won't all fit in the trunk, when Rosamund immediately cuts her off. "No, of course there aren't too many! One can never have too many gowns! Carry on!"

Eve worked through the morning, making suggestions and complementing her mistress, gently steering her away from one too many dresses, pouring her drinks, wrapping Rosamund's clothes in soft lilac tissue paper and carefully laying them in Rosamund's handsome dark blue trunk and cases.

At noon one of the other maids, Clara delivers sandwiches to the room, which Rosamund promptly devoured, leaving not much for Eve left over. Eve and Clara gave each other significant looks, Eve looking rather disgruntled at not getting any luncheon, and Clara rolled her dark brown eyes as she left the room.

Finally, at long last, Rosamund's belongings were packed, crammed into a trunk and more than a few other boxes. "I better be dressed now, for my journey," Rosamund said. "Eve, come along, you can help me." Her exhausted maid, who wants nothing more than to flop down in a chair by the fire with a steaming mug of tea sighs in a resigned sort of way, but begins to help Rosamund truss herself up into a chic grey travelling suit. Rosamund may be many things, but perceptive isn't one of them, and completely fails to notice how tired her maid is.

Rosamund certainly isn't tired yet, it's only about 1pm still, and for her, the day is still long and promising.

She veritably runs down the stairs in excitement, she's so full of anticipation of seeing Lavinia and Cora again, a small boy staggering behind her, trunk in his arms. She may not have a full time footman (she basically hires someone handsome if throwing a wild party), but she does have a hall boy, and the task of lugging Rosamund's things out to her car has fallen on him.

She bursts out of the front door, being hit full in the face by crisp London air, then allows the chauffer, Hooper, to help her into the vehicle. Eve produces a basket containing a flask of tea and several slices of fruitcake for the journey. Rosamund smiles brightly at her. "Why thank you!" she says, suddenly noticing how tired Eve actually looks. The smile slapped on her face falters slightly, and her voice trails off. Has she worked her too hard? Should she have eaten all those sandwiches, or should she have left some for her maid? Oh dear. She tries to show Eve through her eyes that she's sorry, and that she knows that she's been horribly selfish.

But she doesn't get to see whether Eve picks up on her glance or not, for Hooper chooses at that moment to start the car and begin to drive. She gives up, flopping back in her seat and exhaling a long puff of warm air. She hopes Hooper will hurry up and get her to Downton soon.

**A/N: So, if you love it, or hate it, I would be very glad if you could drop me a review and tell me what you think!**


	3. Chapter 3

When Rosamund steps off the train, a light rain is falling, and the sky is grey, but a faint, watery sunshine is piercing through the clouds, dazzling everything it touches, and slowly brimming over, spilling and flooding the atmosphere, and the day suddenly becomes filled with sunshine. Rosamund sniffs. She can smell the rain, and the sulphur of the engine. It's gorgeous.

She smiles to herself as she thinks the weather is almost like her mood today. Slightly grey and washy, more than a little uncertain, but getting better, getting brighter as she becomes more and more excited about seeing Cora and Lavinia again.

"Aunt Rosamund?" The voice startles her, and she whirls around to find her niece Edith standing there, dressed in a pretty coat of blush rose pink and a straw cloche hat. Her niece is smiling, albeit a little nervously, as though a little timid about meeting her far more extroverted aunt, but pleased all the same.

"Edith my dear!" Rosamund leans forward and clutches the girl in an embrace, planting a kiss on each cheek and giving her a beaming smile. "How lovely to see you. Now, where's that chauffer? Irish wasn't he? Yes. Branson. I remember." She twisted her head around, but although she could see the car, there was no sign of the chauffer she remembers so well from her last visit to her husband's home. (Although why she remembers him so well is maybe something to consider.)

"Where is he?" she repeats, her tone almost one that suggests Edith might be hiding him. "We need Branson to get my luggage."

Edith shakes her head. "Oh no, Aunt Rosamund, he's not here. He's not even working at Downton anymore."

Rosamund's eyes widen, comically so, almost so far one could say they were only one step away from popping out of her skull and spinning madly away down the platform. Her jaw also slackens, until her face is the perfect caricature of surprise. "Oh, that is a shame. Did the fellow resign? I did hear him spouting some socialist nonsense off to your youngest sister once. Has he gone to be political? Or, (and my dear, you know me, of course I would much prefer it if he has done something of the ilk I am about to suggest), has he done something so god-awful my charming brother has cast him away into the night?"

Edith smirks at her aunt in a conspiratorial fashion as they begin to search for a porter willing to load their bags onto a trolley, as it is apparent Branson is not going to appear any time soon. "Well, Sybil is the thing," she says, as Rosamund starts waving a handy looking porter towards her luggage. "They wanted to run off together, but of course Papa wasn't impressed. And so, as you put it, yes, he was cast off into the night. Or at least to the Grantham Arms anyway. Sybil's constantly fighting with Papa, trying to persuade him to allow them to marry."

She looks at her Aunt, expecting to see Rosamund's usual expression of glee whenever she gets even a whiff of scandal, or opening her mouth to exclaim how right her brother was, but instead is highly surprised to see her aunt looking rather dewy eyed. Edith widens her own dark eyes in amazement, almost laughing at the sight of her aunt, usually so controlled and upright looking tearful.

"Aunt Rosamund?" she says. "What is it?"

Rosamund turns to her niece. "What? Oh nothing. I'm just happy for them." She pauses a moment as Edith explains to the porter where the car is, and instructs him to help them load their luggage into it, and then slides into the passenger seat beside Edith, who is looking most pleased at being behind the wheel.

"Yes, I'm happy for them," she continues as Edith slowly lets the clutch up and the car judders into life. "Isn't it just _nice _when people fall in love with one another?"

"I suppose so." Edith gazes a little incredulously at her aunt, for the use of the word "nice" seems a little insincere when voiced in Rosamund's tones. But her aunt's face shows nothing but a rather dreamy sort of pleasure, and Edith just rolls her eyes at Rosamund's unpredictability.

They drive in silence for a short stretch, Edith quite content at not conversing, but Rosamund's body language and facial expression make her look distinctly uncomfortable, as though troubled by something. There is one question playing through Rosamund's mind, but she isn't quite sure if she dare ask it. Although, will Edith think her unsympathetic and cold to not enquire? Rosamund shakes her head to herself. _Bloody hell, Rosamund!_ She thinks. _You are not usually this shy!_

She sighs, letting her breath puff out in a long stream, and then turns to her niece and asks the question that is plaguing her so. "Well…Edith," she begins. "How…how is your mother? And Miss Swire?"

Edith's own shoulders sag slightly; as though the two women's illness was something she had forgotten and had just been cruelly reminded of. "Not good, I'm afraid," she says matter-of-factly. (Edith is always matter-of-fact.) "I don't think that Lavinia is too bad, but Mama…" her voice trails off, leaving Rosamund to imagine the worst. "Miss O'Brien never leaves her side," Edith continues. "We practically have to drag her away to force her to eat something."

Rosamund allows a smile to glance across her lips at that remark. "No," she replies. "I am sure she does not."

The rest of the journey is spent totally in silence; Rosamund feeling horrendously guilty, Edith just enjoying the drive. Rosamund's guilt stems from the fact that, concerned as she is for her sister in law, she is mostly pleased that Lavinia isn't too bad. Because her love for Cora is…mostly on a friendship, sisterly scale. (Well. Friends with benefits anyway, for Rosamund sometimes finds it too hard to resist, and Cora, sweet Cora, is always _(sometimes, Rosamund, sometimes!)_ so very obliging) But Lavinia…

She brushes her worries away, and as Edith steers them into the gravel driveway of Downton Abbey, the sun bursts fully out from behind the clouds, this time here to stay.

"I'm afraid we're rather depleted with our staff at the moment, Lady Rosamund," Elsie Hughes sighs once she has come out to meet them, Thomas extracting the boxes and bags from the vehicle and Anna bringing up the rear, gathering up Rosamund's various scattered handbags and cases.

"Mr Carson is ill; and our footmen…" her voice is cut off by an airy toss of Rosamund's head.

"That is perfectly understandable, Hughsie," she says. "I am here to visit the sick after all, and I am perfectly aware that the servants will have contracted it too." She smirks, and then adds as an afterthought, "Especially amongst the more elderly ones, even old fighters like Carson."

Mrs Hughes bristled. Being called "Hughsie" by a woman she has never been too fond of (even in the days Elsie spent as merely Elsie, Head housemaid not the formidable Mrs Hughes, Housekeeper that she is today, she never liked Rosamund. She was, and still is, too brash and vulgar for her liking) may be one thing, but undoubtedly being classed in the "old" category in the redheads mind is quite another.

She sniffs in a disapproving sort of way, and simply follows Rosamund in, who is busy rabbiting about where Robert is. "I suppose he'll be with Cora?" she says, whirling around to face Edith who has come up behind her. "And who is with Miss Swire?"

Edith shrugs her shoulders. "Cousin Matthew or Cousin Isobel," I suppose, she replies, carefully removing her hat and handing it to Anna. "But I don't know where Papa is. Perhaps, after some tea, I can take you with me to see Mama." Edith turns to the housekeeper, about to request tea for her aunt in the drawing room, but Rosamund shakes her head and refuses. "Oh no!" she exclaims brightly. "I'll just go up and see them now!" She steps out of her coat and hat with ease, thrusting them upon Elsie and practically bounding towards the staircase in her haste.

A sort of manic energy has spread through her, not for the first time today, but she doesn't mind it too much at the moment. The prospects of seeing Lavinia and Cora are too great for her now – she'll go to see Cora first, as that is more proper, and she longs to see her regardless, and then, she decides, she'll enquire about Lavinia after that.

She knows her way around the house perfectly of course, it was her childhood home after all, and she's visited countless times since. The room in which Cora resides is right in front of her. But suddenly she's stopped, unsure._ Stop being so ridiculous and go in!_ She tells herself. _Cora would welcome you._

But…what if Cora can't welcome her? After all, Robert's letter implied his wife wasn't fully aware, and so Rosamund's beaming smile slides down her face. She presses an ear to the door. She can hear a low, mumbling tone, but who it belongs to she's not sure. Not Robert; it's decidedly female. So Mary perhaps; or Sibyl? The voice suddenly sounds out, louder, directly addressing her.

"Are you comin' in Lady Rosamund or not?"

Sarah O'Brien. Rosamund breathes a sigh of relief. It's alright if it's only Cora's maid. Rosamund knows Sarah well, or so she likes to assume. And so, it is with a smile on her face again that she shoves open the door.

"How did you know it was me?" she grins, and then, suddenly, as though her senses have only just been turned on, the atmosphere of the room assaults her. The curtains are pulled back wide, the sunlight streaming in and lighting it up in the way that electricity never could. The window is also pulled slightly open, to allow the air to circulate, but somehow the room is still stiflingly warm.

Rosamund gazes at Sarah incredulously, wondering how the heck she could stand spending her days in so hot surroundings whilst wearing that ridiculously unflattering black dress. In spite of herself, she allows her eyes to rove appreciatively over the maid's body, wondering in the back of her mind what Sarah might look like garbed in something much more elegant. _Divine_, she thinks, and her amusement must have shown on her face, for Sarah coughs slightly derisively, drawing Rosamund's attention to the woman in the bed at last.

Cora lay curled on her side, dark hair curving the side of her head meaning that Rosamund can't see the countess's features. She's wearing a plain nightdress with short sleeves, and her blankets are only drawn to her waist, so one long, pale arm lies atop them, and the hand on the end of it clasped tightly in Sarah's own. Cora appears to be sleeping, or simply unconscious, for she's certainly made no acknowledgement that she knows someone else has just entered the room.

Rosamund frowns, unable to move for a moment, frozen to the spot at the sight of her dearest friend and confidante lying prone in such a pitiful state. "C-Cora?" she splutters, barely able to take in the sight before her.

"Because there is no one else who scuffles around outside a door like that when there's someone ill behind it," Sarah says suddenly, and Rosamund blinks at her, confused.

"What?"

The ladies maid rolls her eyes. "I'm simply answering your question, my lady," she says, using her one free hand to brush a speck of dust off her knees. The slightly insolent tone of her voice suggests that Rosamund is not as much of a lady as she might come across to be, and Rosamund just glares back, taking in for the first time how bloody tired the woman looks. (Pity that Cora is never one for keeping her mouth shut to her ladies maid after a visit from Rosamund describing her latest encounters (sexual or otherwise) in all the lurid glory.)

Shaking her head at Rosamund's confusion Sarah just lets the moment drop. "So why're you 'ere then?" she asks. "Come to see her ladyship?" Sarah, in all honesty, doesn't mind Lady Rosamund, so long as she keeps her hands to herself. Sometimes Cora ropes her maid into one of her cosy luncheon tete a tetes when Rosamund comes to visit, and so the two women are on rather more personal terms than a maid and a visiting lady might be otherwise.

"Yes, I have." Rosamund's eyes stray to the interlocked hands of the mistress and her maid before her and smiles slightly. She's convinced Sarah's feelings for Cora are slightly more than on a detached, professional level. But Sarah drops Cora's hand however (which is a more difficult task than it sounds, as Cora appears to have been gripping onto Sarah's fingers whilst she slept), and then rises slightly unsteadily from her chair, and pointing Rosamund towards it.

"'Ere you go then," she says. "But I doubt she'll know you." Her voice drops, and when she speaks again, it is heavily laden with sadness. Rosamund drops into the vacated seat and reaches out towards the sleeping Countess. "Cora?" Her throat is dry. "It's me, Rosamund."

There is no response. Rosamund can sense Sarah never taking her eyes off her lady. She can practically read Sarah's mind, she can tell how willing and devoted Sarah is, how endlessly attached she is to her employer. And she can tell too, just from Cora's position, how reliant on Sarah she really is.

Rosamund grabs her brothers wife's hands (just where is Robert?), and is startled by a sudden response from Cora herself; for she reaches out and reciprocates the motion of holding Rosamund's hands. Sarah sees it too and jerks forward, saying nothing, but watching hard.

"Cora, it's me!" Rosamund cries. "It's Ros!"

"Don't shout so bleedin' loud," Sarah butts in. "She is sick, even if you've somehow forgotten." Rosamund turns to smirk at the maid's language in front of her, evidently comfortable enough in her company to speak to her as someone of her own class, or a friend. _Good._

She turns her attentions back to Cora, who's now shuffling slightly in her sheets. The sheet of lank hair falls back from her face, and Rosamund is suddenly aghast at how ill she actually looks. Dark circles frame her half closed eyes and her face is pale and unusually gaunt. A tear travels down Rosamund's cheek and she brushes it quickly away, unsure at how it got there.

A low moan issues from Cora's mouth. "R…R..." she mumbles, almost inaudibly. Sarah and Rosamund lean closer, straining to hear what she says. "Milady?" Sarah gasps, her tone worried. "Can you hear us milady?"

Cora mumbles something else. "R…Ros…Ros…"

Rosamund rises, her chest swelling and a smile bursting onto her face so wide it almost cracks. "She heard me!" she giggled, a hand fluttering to her heart. "Oh, Cora, Cora, I'm here!" she leans towards her and smothers her cheeks with affectionate kisses. "Oh darling!" She stands up, and backs away several spaces.

"I'm actually shaking I'm so pleased," she titters, fluttering around at the foot of the bed. "Aren't you, Miss O'Brien? Do you ever shake when you're pleased about something?"

The maid just shoots Rosamund a black look. "Oh, you're narked she spoke to me and not you?" Rosamund enquires; her voice still high and excited thanks to having been spoken to by Cora. She feels elated, and full of jubilation at the fact that it was her that Cora just chose to speak to. Although Cora doesn't exactly look like she's speaking now, Rosamund muses, but never mind. She did, and that's the whole point.

"Oh I can't stay in here," Rosamund says. "I'll come back later…" she smiles at Sarah, beams at Cora who appears to be unconscious again, and backs out of the room, but not before noticing the look of incredulity on Sarah's face at the fact that Rosamund can't stay now that she's been graced by a welcome of sorts from her sister in law. If she were Ros, it would make her wish to stay even more, but Rosamund's mind is a confusing thing for the usually perceptive Sarah. She's too fickle and flighty.

The second look Rosamund sees on Sarah's face before she shuts the door is one of great tenderness and concern as she fusses around her mistress, sitting herself back down and returning to her lonely vigil of hand holding and brow smoothing.

Rosamund sighs as she exits, clasping her hands together and thinking of Sarah's obvious love for Cora. Then she makes her way down the corridor, to try and find Miss Lavinia Swire.


	4. Chapter 4

Rosamund sails down the corridor on a wave of hot air after her visit with Cora. She recognised her! Rosamund shivers delightedly again, exulting in the fact that it was she Cora spoke to and not Sarah O'Brien. Of course, she would be delighted whoever it was that Cora had recognised, but the competitive streak in her nature makes her feel utterly jubilated that it wasn't the maid.

But Lord, she looked so ill. Rosamund finds herself quaking slightly once more, and not from joy this time. She's not stupid, she's heard the stories, read the papers, and watched the death toll rise, all because of this bloody disease. If Cora went…god knows how she'd cope! And as for O'Brien, Rosamund dreads to think what she'd do.

In an attempt to rid her brain of these macabre thoughts and continues on her way. Where will Lavinia be exactly? One of the guest rooms? She supposes so, and when she hears footsteps approaching, she turns around, her biggest smile on her face in the attempt to glean the information from the owner of the feet that is creating them.

It's Mary. "Darling!" Rosamund exclaims. "How are you?" It has been too long since she met with her oldest niece. Some may not view the length of time it has been overly long, but for Rosamund, it feels like an age.

Mary hadn't held Rosamund's "advice" against her aunt, and Rosamund loves her all the more for it.

(Rosamund loves all three of her nieces dearly, sunny and sweet Sybil just as much as Edith. Edith's occasional brusqueness, frequent looks of sorrow and declarations of feeling worthless hide an intelligent and independent soul. Rosamund sees Edith's potential to excel in the real world, away from all the balls and parties, and consequently adores her. And Edith has been told that it is Rosamund she takes after, although she doesn't always strictly believe it.)

But Mary is an incredibly _powerful _young woman; one day, she will be the Countess of Grantham (Rosamund doesn't believe for a moment Lavinia will marry Matthew, whatever Lavinia's feelings may be. Mary was born to it, Lavinia was not. And besides, Mary and Matthew were made for one another), and Mary's personality is laden with full evidence that she knows it.

"I am well, thank you," her dark haired niece replies. "Are you here to visit mama? I was not expecting to see you so soon."

Rosamund shrugs her shoulders. "Well my dear," she smiled, "I did want to see her so very much – both your mother _and _Miss Swire, and so I thought, well, why wait?"

"Why wait, indeed," Mary smirks, privately thinking her aunt would probably benefit more by remaining safely sat in Eaton Square, waiting to receive news by post or telegram like on ordinary person rather than to come poke her nose into Downton's private affairs, but she doesn't comment, and merely continues, "are you on your way to Lavinia? Shall I show you where she is?"

"I was hoping you'd do just that," Rosamund replies, and, hooking her arm through Mary's, allows her niece to guide her down the corridor.

"So how is your engagement getting along with that frightfully handsome fellow I shared a car with on my last stay?" she asks, rooting for the gossip and drama tangled affairs of the heart inevitably produces. "He didn't say much on that journey when I met him, in fact, he was frightfully taciturn. I have said this before, and I'll say it again, my dear, he did not take his nose from the papers once! Not once! Not even when I offered to-"

She cuts off suddenly, lips curling upwards and beginning to snigger. Mary rolled her eyes. Really, what had Rosamund been doing now? Rosamund has never seemed to her niece, from what Mary has picked up from all her other relatives, to be a reserved person. Very, very unreserved in fact….

But at least Richard had not responded, if Rosamund _was_ attempting to make advances on him. "You mean Sir Richard?" Mary said simply. "Yes, we're getting along well…quite well." If there is one thing Mary has learnt in life it's to not show, to your best ability, your true emotions in public. Even around your relatives. For Mary's relations with Richard are…somewhat tenuous.

But Rosamund doesn't appear to pick up on Mary's slight uncertainty, or unwillingness to press the subject, and continues blithely on. "Oh how nice." (Actually, Rosamund's tone is slightly mocking, and Mary feels a little unsure as to what her aunt's purposes are.) "Have you set a date yet?"

Mary sighs, resigned to the fact that this conversation must continue with her unrelentlessly nosy aunt. "Not yet. Richard keeps pressing me to – oh, here we are!" The two women have arrived at Lavinia's door at last, putting an end to Mary's awkwardness and silencing Rosamund's Richard Carlisle thoughts.

"Well, you can go in," Mary says. "As long as you promise not to cause trouble. I remember what you were like after you became fixated upon the idea of her being Richard's lover and the cause of the Marconi scandal. She was most upset."

"Me?" Rosamund quipped, jokingly widening her eyes. "Cause trouble? Never!" she sees the look on Mary's face and shakes her head. "No, I'm serious this time, my dear." Her suddenly grave pale blue eyes look deep into Mary's mahogany brown ones. "The girl is ill. I may not be the world's greatest nurse, but I know not to tease a woman on her sickbed. And no, you don't need to accompany me."

Still high on her success with Cora, she barges into the room, unceremoniously flinging herself down in a nearby chair before the girl in the bed barely has time to register a squeak of surprise. Rosamund leans back in her seat, affecting a tone of (condescending) politeness, and a kind (wicked) grin.

"Miss Lavinia Swire," she begins, carefully enunciating each word, making sure each vowel and consonant is perfectly pronounced and correct. She rolls the words upon her tongue. "How are you?"

Not tease a woman on her sickbed? _What a liar._

Lavinia is sat in the bed, her hair, so similar in its colour to Rosamund's twisted into a loose braid that rests upon her shoulders, and swathed in a grey shawl. The book she had been reading when Rosamund had entered is clasped to her chest, and Rosamund peers closer to see it. _Pride and Prejudice_, by Jane Austen. Excellent.

And, despite having dusky black shadows around her eyes, and looking decidedly more wan than when Rosamund saw her last, she doesn't look nearly so ill as Cora does. Lavinia is sat up and reading; Cora is basically unconscious. There's a difference.

"Lady Rosamund," Lavinia says, skirting around the older woman's question. "What brings you here?"

Oh really. Rosamund suddenly finds herself getting rather tired of various people asking this of her. "I've come to see you, Lavinia," she ruminates, smirking in a friendly sort of fashion at the younger woman. "That is – if I may call you Lavinia?"

Lavinia shrug-nods. "I suppose so," she says in a quiet voice.

"Excellent," she replies crisply. "Then you may call me Rosamund – or Ros, whichever you prefer."

Lavinia, if all truth be told, would prefer not to call her either, or anything at all. She considers Rosamund to have been distinctly malicious to her on the last occasion that they had met, and would prefer it if Rosamund left the room now, and wouldn't mind it if she didn't return, even if she is dear Mary's aunt.

However, Lavinia has always been rather shy (apparently an affliction that Rosamund has apparently never suffered from), and has never liked upsetting people much, even if she is slightly wary of them. "Rosamund, then." Lavinia's voice is fairly weak. As Rosamund regards her, she decides Lavinia may not be as ill as Cora, but she isn't at all well all the same, and so must be allowed to not be _too_ forthcoming.

It is curious how Rosamund, is most of the time so acutely aware and sharply sensitive to some people's emotions, and other times she utterly fails to grasp the pathos, atmosphere and gravitas of other's. She may know exactly what her darling sister in law may feel, just through the quirk of a lip or widening of an eye, but just can't understand that Lavinia Swire is an exhausted young woman who just wants to be left alone.

But Lavinia has been raised to be polite. "Rosamund, then," she repeats. "Shall I ring the bell, would you care for some tea? You have caught me on one of the few occasions I have been left alone – Mrs Crawley has been most attentive, and d-darling Matthew visits when he can, and Mary too."

Rosamund smiles and shakes her head, noting the slight stutter over Lavinia's enunciation of the word "darling". All is well between Mary and Sir Richard, and maybe Lavinia and Matthew's relationship is floundering too? It must be hard, Lavinia falling ill in such a way just before her wedding day. Rosamund wonders vaguely if it'll even go ahead now. It certainly cannot if Lavinia doesn't recover for a while.

Judging by the look of her, Rosamund thinks Lavinia will _not_ be recovering for a while. And she's not even as bad as Cora.

"No thank you, no tea! Although – if I may, please have a biscuit?" Rosamund motions to an elegant jar of wafer biscuits standing on the hearth. "I'll get them, there's no need to worry!" She clambers to her feet, swanning over and unscrewing the cut glass lid and cramming one greedily into her mouth.

She devours the biscuit down, licking a few stray crumbs from the tips of her fingers. Lavinia turns her head and delicately looks away. Ever since she fell ill she's had little appetite, no matter how many watery soups Isobel Crawley attempts to ply her with.

Rosamund continues to eat in the corner and Lavinia continues to avert her eyes, and to Lavinia, all is awkward, but to Rosamund, nothing could be lovelier. She's eating some of Mrs Patmore's _delicious _homemade biscuits, she's been recognised by her delirious sister in law and she's in the same room as an uncommonly pretty young woman. Lavinia is not the most regally exquisite person Rosamund has every come across, and she has no air of glamour; she's no Mary, but there is something about her that the older woman finds genuinely appealing.

"There's none left!" Rosamund exclaims suddenly. Lavinia jerks her head up, startled by the rather raucous cry. Rosamund shows her the box, and indeed, there are only a few broken bits and pieces in there. The look on Rosamund's face is almost amusing, however, and Lavinia finds herself beginning to stifle a smile.

"I – well," Lavinia says softly. "I awoke very early this morning and –"

Rosamund cuts over her rudely. "In a fit of sudden hunger you jumped off the bed and shoved as many of these cookies into your mouth as your delicate stomach could contain?" She smirks as she sets the jar back down upon the hearth.

"No!" For the first time since Rosamund's impromptu arrival Lavinia's voice begins to show some animation. "I woke up, when one of the house maids was banking up my fire and she looked hungry. I offered her some."

Rosamund looks at her sharply. "How very kind," she says. "But is that really allowed? What would Mr Carson say if he knew that one of his staff was a biscuit thief?" Something in Rosamund's tone perplexes Lavinia, and she's unsure whether the sweetly snide woman is joking or not.

"Well, I would explain," Lavinia says curtly, even more tired of Rosamund's demanding presence than ever.

"Her name was Daisy, and she was very nice. I will speak with her again tomorrow. Now if you'll forgive me, I'll bid you leave, for I feel a sudden need to rest." Lavinia isn't sure what made her not through Rosamund from the room at her first entrance. This is the woman who accused her of beginning the Marconi Scandal; of twisting the world around her poised little finger, of bedding Sir Richard Carlisle. She doesn't want her offering unconventional Get Well Greetings for no real reason at all!

Lavinia lays Pride and Prejudice on one side, rather pointedly, and burrows down beneath her coverlets.

"Oh? So soon?" although Rosamund strives to keep her tone neutral, she struggles to hide the shot of disappointment that runs through it, and ends her words with a long sigh. Just when she thought she had made a connection with Lavinia, just when she thought they were beginning to get on! But she can see a distinctly look in the younger woman's grey eyes and realises that she has been wrong.

She hides her disappointment away and adds, "of course you must rest, Lavinia dear. You aren't well!" She's about to turn and leave when she suddenly remembers something quite important.

She's Rosamund Painswick!

Rosamund Painswick, the bold, the flighty, the adventurous! She used to scare her fellow debutants, back in the day! She once flirted with the elderly father of one of her potential suitors, and when she had done with him, moved onto the mother! She's probably drank more cocktails than any of all the other debs put together. _And_ she's met Diana Lethaby.

Remembering all these events from her past gives Rosamund a sudden jest again, makes her suddenly feel the urge to repeat all her mischievous, not _at all_ sordid adventures from her youth.

So she crosses over to the bed, and plants Lavinia a kiss on the forehead, holding her body in such a way that the younger redhead gets a view straight down her blouse, and being as forthcoming as she possibly can without appearing obvious. "I shall come again tomorrow. I hope you shall receive me well!"

And with that, she marches from the room, banging the door behind her. Lavinia can hear her cackles as he continues down the corridors. _Bloody ostentatious cow! _Lavinia thought suddenly, slightly guiltily, not from insulting Rosamund, but from being unaccustomed to using such language.

Lavinia feels the heat creep over her body as she lays her head at last upon the pillow and tries to rid herself of the image of Rosamund as she kissed her that has been unhelpfully branded upon the back of her eyes.

She waits for peace to overwhelm her.

Lavinia sleeps.


End file.
